Man Was Made To Mourn: Wisdom from the Pen of Robert Burns

It's a common literary device. A story is told in which the wisdom of an elder is contrasted or shared with a younger person. One of my favorite Jack London stories, A Piece of Steak, is about an old, used up boxer named Tom King. As he fights his young opponent Sandel, he reflects on his own career in which he was once the young tough pummeling old boxers like himself on their way to hoped-for future glory. By the story's end Sandel is a symbol of Youth, ever rising.

Jorge Luis Borges has a very interesting story, called The Other, about an older man who sits on a park bench and comes to realize that the young man seated at the other end of the bench is he himself when he was younger. Borges's style of magical realism draws you in as the older realizes they are in two different but intersecting moments in space and time  What would you say to your younger self if you were given the chance. I think of this often.

Robert Burns' poem Man Was Made To Mourn uses a similar device in which an older man strives to communicate something to a younger man who is walking along life's way. I discovered the poem because it contains a line that I have quoted many times since first hearing: "Man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn."

The poem begins with the narrator out for a walk noticing an older man walking in a heavy-laden manner. In the second stanza the old man is curious about the young man's purpose. Are you out for a walk to pursue pleasure and excitement or are you beginning, too young, to walk because you feel pressed down by woes?

We then learn that the old man is now 80 years old, and his singular refrain at the end of each stanza is "man was made to mourn." The rest of the poem is the older man's explanation of how things are in this world.

The poem was written in 1784, long before the advent of modern medicine. Children often failed to reach adulthood, so there were many broken hearts of parents who buried their children, just one of the many ways we suffer. Ironically, the author of this poem, Robert Burns, died in his late thirties and never came close to 80.

Man Was Made to Mourn

When chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 
Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spied a man, whose aged step 
Seem'd weary, worn with care; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 
And hoary was his hair. 

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" 
Began the rev'rend sage; 
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 
Or youthful pleasure's rage? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 
Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me to mourn 
The miseries of man. 

"The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 
A haughty lordling's pride; - 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 
Twice forty times return; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 
That man was made to mourn. 

"O man! while in thy early years, 
How prodigal of time! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours- 
Thy glorious, youthful prime! 
Alternate follies take the sway; 
Licentious passions burn; 
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law. 
That man was made to mourn. 

"Look not alone on youthful prime, 
Or manhood's active might; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 
Supported in his right: 
But see him on the edge of life, 
With cares and sorrows worn; 
Then Age and Want - oh! ill-match'd pair - 
Shew man was made to mourn. 

"A few seem favourites of fate, 
In pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 
Are likewise truly blest: 
But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land, 
All wretched and forlorn, 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 
That man was made to mourn. 
"Many and sharp the num'rous ills 
Inwoven with our frame! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 
Regret, remorse, and shame! 
And man, whose heav'n-erected face 
The smiles of love adorn, - 
Man's inhumanity to man 
Makes countless thousands mourn! 

"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 
So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 
To give him leave to toil; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 
The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 
And helpless offspring mourn. 

"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave, 
By Nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 
E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty, or scorn? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 
To make his fellow mourn? 

"Yet, let not this too much, my son, 
Disturb thy youthful breast: 
This partial view of human-kind 
Is surely not the last! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man 
Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 
To comfort those that mourn! 

"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, 
The kindest and the best! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
Are laid with thee at rest! 
The great, the wealthy fear thy blow 
From pomp and pleasure torn; 
But, oh! a blest relief for those 
That weary-laden mourn!"

 * * * *

I hear echoes of Psalm 73 when I read this, a psalm contrasting haves and have nots. M. Scott Peck's The Road Less Travelled similarly comes to mind with its opening sentence stating so plainly, "Life is difficult." The premise here is that when difficulties come along, we ought not be surprised. 

Which brings to mind this stanza from Christina Rosetti's poem, Up-Hill.

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

   Yes, to the very end.

Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?

   From morn to night, my friend.

If you like poetry, here is another favorite of mine:

How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix 

Related Link
Robert Burns Biography